


To Sleep in Peace

by HurricanesWriting



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: ??? sorta?, Angst, Character Study, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, achilles is freshly dead and a complete mess, dream imagery, hypnos is powerful, this is hard to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29147787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricanesWriting/pseuds/HurricanesWriting
Summary: For the first time in a very, very,verylong time, Hypnos feels a nightmare form within the House of Hades. He regards it as his duty to chase them away, but no one's made it this much of a struggle before.An early interaction between Achilles and Hypnos, not long after Achilles starts working at the House.
Relationships: Achilles & Hypnos (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 158





	To Sleep in Peace

**Author's Note:**

> I blacked out today and woke up with this in front of me. Please enjoy.

Patroclus stares at him, tense beneath Achilles’ own armor, silent. He has nothing left to say.

Achilles has everything left to say. Anything, anything at all, he can think of so many things that could prevent the tragedy he knows is about to occur. His mind screams, sobs, _begs_ to give voice to any of them, but the silence remains unbroken.

His body ignores his every attempt to act, as if it is set on a course that has already been decided, and isn’t it? Who is Achilles if not a man made of his own mistakes? He’s made so many that he doesn’t think there’s anything else left of him now.

Patroclus sighs like he thinks the same.

“So be it.”

He pulls Achilles' helmet down over his head, turns heel, and leaves the tent.

The moment the flaps fall shut behind him, fully hiding him from view, whatever force that was holding him in place releases him from its iron claws. Achilles gasps like he’s been drowning for years. He lurches forward and falls from the cot into a sprawled heap on the ground, trembling violently. Blood roars in his ears and adrenaline makes his chest feel ready to burst.

He claws himself forward like some feral animal, mindless but for a single thought. Patroclus. Patroclus. He only just left, only a moment ago, he can’t be more than two strides away from the tent.

He can do this. He can move now, he can reach him, he can pull him back, he can keep him from- _fix his-_

Achilles lunges from the tent, nearly crashing into Patroclus, but no, it’s _Patroclus_ crashing into _him._ He falls backwards and Achilles’ arms come up out of reflex to support him. Patrolcus’s head rolls back onto his shoulder then lolls further down his arm, because this isn’t the camp anymore, this is the battlefield, and Hector’s spear is deep in his chest, driven through the armor that failed to protect him, the armor that condemned him.

There’s screaming pressing down on him like a physical force. It sounds like every soul on the battlefield, Acheans and Trojans alike are shrieking, roaring, wailing. It rings out in hatred, rage, grief, pain, and fear, so much fear.

There’s blood everywhere, everywhere, Achilles is drenched in it, he drowns in it. It slicks his arms and Patroclus falls from his grasp, body crashing to the ground. He reaches down to recover his beloved, but he can’t see him anymore. Patroclus fell into a lake of blood, an ocean, streaming from Achilles, flowing from his fingertips where they hover.

He needs to find Patroclus, he needs to pull him back out, but once again, he’s helpless to do anything but gaze at his hands as they grip his spear, tense with lust for carnage. When did he grab it- _why_ did he grab it? It’s not important right now, nothing matters but Patroclus, _he needs to-_

Something shifts then, and the blood drains away from his hands and arms. The ocean of it vanishes, revealing bare, unassuming, hard packed earth underneath. The screaming turns into a rushing wind that slowly dies down, the transition so natural Achilles wonders if it was ever screaming in the first place. Something flashes at the edge of his vision, like fingers or feathers or something more.

Abruptly, Achilles is conscious that he’s dreaming.

“What is this?!” he cries out, too caught up in his agony to second guess his impulses. “What do you want?!”

A nervous laugh echoes, one that sounds familiar to some part of his mind. “Ah- sorry about that!” And Achilles is gazing at Hypnos, even though he has no memory of turning around to face him.

“Sorry, that was pretty heavy handed, wasn’t it?” the god says with his typical chipper voice. “I don’t like to deal with dreams like that, it’s too invasive, and for the people I know, I honor a strict personal policy that what they dream of is none of my business!”

Achilles stares.

“It’s just-” Hypnos continues, “Wow! This was the first nightmare I’d felt from the House in such a long time that it really shocked me! Sorry I went a bit overboard dealing with it.”

A pause.

With a tiny whine, Achilles wraps his arms around his midsection and presses his forehead to the ground where he kneels.

He hears Hypnos click his tongue softly, then say, “Yeah, this is quite the mess, isn’t it? Here, let me clean this up.” Achilles shudders as he feels everything shift around him, but he doesn’t look up to see the change.

“Just spare me a few moments to sort some things out and I’ll get you settled in a better dream,” Hypnos tells him, voice calmer than usual and clearly distracted. Achilles takes a few deep breaths, composing his roiling emotions as best he can, and uncurls.

He struggles to understand what he sees. He’s surrounded by what might best be described as clouds, colored with a dim, golden hue, that shift all around him. Some clouds seem mere inches away while others have gaps that seem to reach into an unending depth. They ripple and waver, as if only half committed to forming the space.

He sees the edge of Hypnos’s crimson robe flash in front of him. He tries to stand and feels dizzy when the weight and gravity of his form shifts wildly at every movement. Right in front of him, out of nothingness, a single golden eye blinks open and instantly the feeling disappears and he stands just like he always does, even though, when he looks down, he sees nothing solid beneath his feet.

He looks up to Hypnos’s back to him. The god is large, larger than he appears in the flesh. Here, he seems about twice Achilles' height, or, no- he has to be _at least_ three times as big, _or-_ he _feels_ close but Achilles can’t figure out how far apart they are.

He thinks that this is making him dizzy again, making Hypnos’s form blur as he moves, until he suddenly realizes that he actually has multiple arms. Many float alongside the god, long fingers moved by bony wrists supported by slender arms that fade into nothingness part of the way down. Some seem to work as pairs and others independently, all moving for some purpose Achilles can’t discern.

His eyes start to hurt. He blinks hard, trying to understand what just happened. His breath still comes in heavy pants, fingers shaking with pain and confused rage.

“You don’t have to do that,” Achilles rasps, only just now processing what Hypnos told him.

“It’s no issue!” Hypnos chirps without turning around. “I just have to organize a few things and then you’ll never have another nightmare bother you again.”

One of Hypnos’s proper hands, one that actually connects to his body, stretches above his head and makes a strange gesture. He doesn’t see anything there or any change, but he notices several of the disembodied hands make similar movements elsewhere, and they seem to have the weight and tension they would if interacting with something physical.

It’s then he sees, or senses, or _something,_ what he likens to light catching on a thread of spider’s silk, flickering beneath fingers then racing off into the distance. Hypnos is pulling at threads, like Orpheus masterfully plucking the strings of his lyre, though, to what purpose, Achilles has no idea.

More isolated eyes open and shut into and out of existence as he watches. A pair of hands reach into a gap in the clouds, pulling it open and three eyes appear to gaze inside. Elsewhere, two more gaze at a section of cloud one hand has pulled free. Some that orbit Hypnos’s head seem more fixed, flicking their attention this way and that. Three above his right shoulder remain fixed on Achilles. They further fray his still raw nerves.

Below that, he realizes, where his brass wing pauldrons usually are, rest real wings, rich with graceful white feathers. Fading in and out of view, they don’t seem too concerned with existing. Nothing here does. Save for Hypnos himself, everything appears and vanishes seemingly at random.

Though, Achilles isn’t stupid enough to believe that just because he doesn’t understand any pattern or purpose to all this, that means there isn’t one.

“You don’t have to concern yourself with that,” Achilles says, trying and failing to keep the bitter pain out of his voice. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Lord Hypnos, but please don’t bother yourself with chasing away my nightmares.”

“Oh, you won’t even notice it in the future. I’ve got you covered from here on out, promise!”

“I assure you, I can get by without that. I can manage things just fine myself.”

Hypnos peers over his shoulder at him at that. “But why? Ah- there’s no strings attached to my offer, by the way. Just a service, free of charge!”

“That’s... more than generous, but I just can’t accept.”

“I promise I won’t look into your dreams again, this time was just a mishandle on my part, sorry! It’s not necessary to do that or anything.”

“Ah, that’s not it.”

Every moment that passes, more eyes set their attention on Achilles. Ethereal arms stop their motions and fade away. Achilles' jaw aches from clenching his teeth as he tries not to shiver.

“Then what is?”

“I shouldn’t be...”

“I don’t get it. I mean, do you _want_ to have nightmares? They won’t go away on their own. Clearly this _hurt_ you-”

 _“I don’t want your pity!”_ Achilles roars. Every eye is on him. Each hand is still.

Achilles has regained his wits enough to think that that could prove a very bad mistake but is still too caught up in his pain to feel any regret.

Hypnos turns to face him fully then and sighs. All the extra arms fade away. Achilles realizes this is the first time he’s seen the God of Sleep without a smile.

“Pity, huh? You know, Achilles, out of everyone in the House of Hades, I think I have more reason to hate you than anyone else.” Achilles swallows. He doesn’t know what he expected the god to say, but it wasn’t that. He tries to smother the searing heat making him ache from head to toe.

“Most nightmares happen on an individual scale and are too small and too numerous to really do anything about. Some don’t last any longer than a few heartbeats.” Hypnos looks to the side and reaches into a gap in the clouds, stretching it open from the bottom. Tumbling out comes a strange form, about the size of Achilles hand. It’s pitch black and hard to comprehend; it has something like limbs, as thin and wicked sharp as needles, and it flashes the impression of sharp fangs, the shapes of bones, twisted holes like wounds. It gnashes at nothing for a few moments before crushing in on itself until it disappears.

“That one was about getting attacked by bandits after getting lost.”

Achilles snaps his gaze back to Hypnos, but he offers no more explanation. Instead he focuses on some point between them, reaching out as if plucking something from the air, though Achilles doesn’t see anything until he turns over his hand unfurls his fingers.

Another one of those... entities is on his palm. This one is smaller and more compact, conveying the feeling of serrated claws, snarled nets, writhing muscles.

“This one is about someone’s bed being full of bugs when they tried to lay down in it.” Hypnos crushes the nightmare between his forefinger and thumb, flicking it away into nothing.

“Most nightmares are like that. There’s not much I can do about them, they’re constantly forming and dying. But they can change. Sometimes-” Hypnos stops with a hum, expression pinching in consideration, fingers flicking slightly in the air. “I’ve never tried to explain it to someone else before, actually!”

Achilles doesn’t dare interrupt.

“When a big enough group of mortals start having nightmares about a similar thing at a similar time, they start to... _amalgamate._ They grow much larger and hardier, like- they have enough sustaining them that they don’t decay normally. Those little pests will only last however long the dreams last. But these things, some of ‘em could last for decades if they’re left alone!”

Hypnos crosses his arms and looks down at him steadily. “Wars always breed nightmares like crazy, and the one you were in was keeping me _very_ busy. And still, it could barely compare to how bad things got when _you_ went on your rampage!”

Achilles struggles to breathe. Waves of power roll off of Hypnos, not forceful or threatening, but undeniable nonetheless.

In the time Achilles has spent in the House of Hades now, he’s noticed that none of its residents seem to acknowledge Hypnos’s strength. Privately, of course, Achilles believes that there are things the gods will never understand as well as mortals. This is one. He believes that if those gods who don’t _need_ rest had lived the same life Achilles or any other mortal had, so incredibly vulnerable to the whims of sleep, they would not be so quick to dismiss Hypnos’s power.

And now Achilles is in Hypnos’s domain, where his power is greatest, and what a power indeed.

“The whole war was worse, of course, but the thing is that the war lasted ten years! In terms of _single events_ that created the most nightmares, the carnage you caused sure is up there. You really rattled everybody on both sides!” Hypnos talks of this with the same cheery inflection he always does, making it impossible for Achilles to interpret the true color of his mood, even as he tries desperately.

“You went a long time down here without sleeping, but it still hasn’t been _that_ long since you died,” Hypnos informs him. “I’m still cleaning up after it. I probably will be for a while.”

The god turns around again and Achilles frantically questions if an apology would improve the situation or make things worse. Before he can decide, Hypnos says, “Here, let me show you.” He straightens his back and sets the backs of his hands together in front of him. Then he pulls them apart and the space warps with them.

Their bubble of clouds fades away as a new space forms around them. They hover above a desolate plane with an oppressive and harsh atmosphere, much like the battlefield Achilles had dreamed of, but less specific, more abstracted. His eyes can’t decide if the sky is unfathomably black or agonizingly bright and he has to look away. The ground is lifeless dirt, riddled with strange ruins. The ground is scarred in ways Achilles shivers to think of the cause of. Despite no visible light source, the space appears cast in innumerable lights of different colors and qualities to a very otherworldly effect.

Even if the plane was empty, it would tempt Achilles to curl up on the ground, legs pressed against his stomach, head buried in his arms, and abandon any will to fight or run or do anything but protect his most vulnerable spots, but it’s _not empty._

He freezes, staring in horror at the nightmare ranging across the plane. It seems more stable then the others, and it’s _enormous._ It feels beast like, lopping across the ground. It’s legs are powerful but seem horrifically starved, each cable of muscle so stark against its neighbors. It has a more distinct neck and head, hanging like a dead weight between its shoulders. Whatever it’s head might look like is hidden from view by something like a curtain of hair, or, no- more like the fabric of a death shroud, or more like a swath of razor sharp sawgrass, or more like an endless spill of blood. Whenever it moves, it seems to fracture into countless copies, impossible to track, obscuring where it actually is.

Then it notices their arrival.

The nightmare _stands,_ lifting itself up on its hind limbs, suddenly forming some bastardized mockery of a human posture. The hair, blood, silk, shifts to show what could be a face but Achilles can’t see anything but it’s _snarl._ Like a trap for a beast, savage fangs clench tight together, points sickeningly sharp, edges wickedly honed. Achilles feels in his core that they were made to tear and slaughter and destroy and they will, they will, they will.

Then they part and the thing roars. It sounds so similar to the shrieking in his dream that he clasps his hand over his mouth from a sudden wave of nausea. The nightmare is screaming; it is _crying._

Hypnos moves forward and suddenly he is vast. The nightmare only comes up to his chest. The god slams a foot down into the ground, the crash deafening, a challenge clear as day. The nightmare flinches back, but then rushes him. Achilles can’t fathom where it truly is, but Hypnos lashes out without hesitation, seizing it below the jaw. He throws it to the ground and leans down to crush it’s rib cage to the ground with both hands, or maybe he’s crushing the rods supporting a tent, the fabric collapsing in on itself.

The thing makes a sickening noise, then shatters to pieces, each one warping and writhing then disappearing before he can really process it.

Then the plane is empty.

Hypnos stretches his back then turns to Achilles. With an effortless wave of his hand, they are back in their hollow of clouds once more.

Instantly, Achilles suddenly feels like what he just experienced took place in the shortest of heartbeats and whatever he managed to comprehend at the time feels compressed to the point that he can barely understand it.

“A lot of amalgamations will disperse at a show of intimidation, but when they get big enough, they try and fight sometimes,” Hypnos informs, looking down at him just as evenly as before.

“Why...” Achilles tries, but his voice fails him.

“Why do I bother fighting beasts like that anyway?” Hypnos supplies. Achilles was going to _ask_ _Why did you show that to me_ but he doesn’t dare correct him.

“It’s true that I don’t have to. Nightmares form naturally and they’ll always be a part of this place. I could let them do as they please, raging through dreams until they eventually rot away on their own time.”

“But you don’t,” Achilles says, because Hypnos looks at him like he wants him to.

“Because I don’t want to,” The God of Sleep answers. He gestures around them. “This is my domain and it falls to me to maintain it as I will. I govern it the way I’ve chosen too. I am Sleep Incarnate and I decided that I want people to sleep in peace.” The words fall with an uncharacteristic weight and Achilles takes heed of the importance he gives them.

Then Hypnos huffs and rearranges himself into a familiar languid position floating in the air. “Long story short, Achilles,” he says, abandoning the serious tone for his usual inflection, “I assure you this isn’t pity. I have plenty of reason to hate you with all the work you’ve given me and, along with that, when nightmares form like _that_ I get to know what they’re made of if I’m trying to or not. You did some pretty horrific stuff up there, ya know?”

He knows. He knows.

“But I _don’t_ hate you!” Achilles blinks. “It’s certainly not my place to judge you on all _that,_ and I don’t care that you caused a ton of nightmares. You caused nightmares for others; others have caused nightmares for you-” Hypnos shrugs. “That’s how it works! Something else would have if you hadn’t. There’ll always be something. I chase off nightmares because it’s my preference; it’s just how I do things.”

Hypnos tilts his head and fixes him with an odd look. “Nobody in the House of Hades has nightmares, you know? They never sleep much, but I always protect their rest when they do. I can certainly do the same for you. So? If you still want to keep being stubborn, I won’t push again, but I really don’t see why you’d want to say no!”

Achilles feels aching and empty and he struggles to think of a way to articulate why he still wants to reject Hypnos’s offer. In the end, all he manages is, “You said yourself, I caused nightmares for others and others caused nightmares for me.”

“Ah.” He doesn’t know what exactly Hypnos gleans from that, but all the confusion clears from his face. Then he grins. “But Achilles, haven’t you been paying attention? What do I do with the nightmares _you_ caused? I chase them off!”

Hypnos snorts when Achilles moans faintly and rubs at his temples. “That’s not a debt you owe. You don’t have some obligation to have nightmares all the time! Here, let me see if I can convince you.”

Achilles looks up as Hypnos claps his hands together. He spreads them and gazes at his cupped palms. A murky swirl of those sort of clouds gather there, shifting as the curls his fingers up to brush through it. Achilles can glean nothing from it, but Hypnos studies it intensely, adjusting his fingers with purposeful precision.

“That should do it!” He claps his hand together once more, and this time, when he spreads them, everything around them changes.

Achilles stands at the rocky bank of a small stream he doesn’t recognize, illuminated by shafts of sunlight piercing through the foliage of strong, tall trees. They stretch into the distance on either side of the stream, the ground carpeted with lush moss and soft grass. The stream gurgles quietly. No one else is there.

“Well?” Hypnos prompts.

“Just- tell me I won’t be dreaming of the rest of my past either, even the parts that wouldn’t be nightmares,” Achilles rushes out, too desperate for anything else. “I don’t think I could bear-” his voice breaks.

“Yeah, I got the feeling,” Hypnos says with an awkward sort of grin. “So don’t worry! Just simple, peaceful, nondescript dreams for you!”

Achilles sits heavily on the ground and grips at his arms. He’s too cowardly to keep fighting on this, too selfish to reject this peaceful place to return to the suffering of his nightmares that he’s more than earned.

“I certainly don’t deserve your care, Lord Hypnos, but I am grateful for it and I promise I will never take it for granted,” Achilles finally concedes.

At that, Hypnos tilts his head back and laughs, loud and vibrant, while Achilles stares at him. “You’re so dramatic!” he hoots. “But as long as you’re good, I’m good. Unless there’s anything else, I’ll get going.”

Achilles shakes his head. “There’s nothing. You’ve already done more than enough for me.”

Hypnos rolls his eyes with a good humored smile. “Yeah, yeah. See you around, then!”

And Hypnos vanishes.

Achilles stays at the bank of the stream, the atmosphere resolving into what he has come to expect from his dreams, fluid, timeless, and soft around the edges.

When Achilles wakes up in the room Master Hades provided, he can’t decide if he feels rested or not. The events with Hypnos feel clouded by sleep, like looking at them through moving water, but it’s still clear enough to see. Achilles refuses to forget it.

The next time he sees Hypnos in the flesh, he bows and says, “Thank you. Our last conversation was very enlightening and I appreciate it deeply.” The God of Sleep flushes and laughs and waves him off lightly. He sees Hades give him an odd glance that he ignores.

There are things the gods will never understand as well as mortals. And now Achilles understands even better than the rest that only a fool would believe that Hypnos is benign through anything but his own choice.

**Author's Note:**

> This is very tangentially related to a significantly longer fic that I'm still working on (I haven't posted it yet). The plots are entirely unrelated, but the way I'm characterizing Achilles in that fic inspired this one. It was also inspired by imagery of how I picture Hypnos interacting with the realm of sleep that's been living in my head for a while now.


End file.
